Work Text:
Manhattan Cafe had been observing Agnes Tachyon.
Oh, she saw. Every little bit of the chestnut-haired Umamusume sitting diagonal and opposite from her. She witnessed her, from the very first day they became roommates in this little abandoned corner of Tracen she hoodwinked someone unwitting into a little sealed clubroom for just the two of them, like they were going to go visit power spots and unlock a microcosm of reality where Umamusume could avoid the poisons of reality.
Cafe took a sip of her cold brew. The temperament of these beans were well suited for it. The acidity was well-tempered, leaving mostly the earthy, almost fruity notes.
From the very first days of their careers in Tracen, Agnes Tachyon was a troublemaker. Cafe immediately pinned her as new money, a spoiled brat that shoved her way in here throwing the weight of her family name around. There was a certain sense in the things she didn't know, like she hadn't quite cottoned on to the reality of her not having a maid to wash her clothes. Tachyon'd ended up rooming with her cousin, Agnes Digital, who happily took such chores for her.
How lucky of her.
The two of them shared a similarity over their inability to attract trainers. For Cafe, it'd been a matter of being so focused on her friend that she'd become something of an anomaly and a risk. It didn't particularly matter to her. She didn't want calculating people who weighed how much of a risk it was to train such a peculiar, unruly Umamusume who preferred to run in the dark, after the sun had well and truly set.
For Tachyon, though...
She was more peculiar.
Cafe's assessment of her as a spoiled brat may have well been on the money -- she'd remembered the news of how a "new, undiscovered talent of the Agnes family" broke strides and made them all salivate over the second story of another Agnes prodigy, after her mother Flora.
The story was, of course, a tragedy.
The story of Agnes Flora's grand arrival on the Twinkle Series and subsequent disappearance due to her untimely injuries was a formula the media always found irresistible, let alone the scandal she had with the incorrigible flirt Sunday Silence that led to her retirement. That the story may happen once more was a siren call that sent them baying like a pack of frenzied dogs.
Tachyon never spoke of what transpired between her and her mother, but it was evident to Cafe in the way she behaved in her first few weeks. Tracen attracted all sorts of go-getters: Umamusume who were fired up to give it their all in training, eyes dinnerplating at the thought of acing their maiden races. Umamusume with a deep, vast analytical mind who pored over each and every second of video and record, living and breathing history itself in order to hone their edge til they're the very best.
Tachyon was none of these.
Tachyon just seemed to play around most days, like causing mischief and skipping class was her modus operandi. There were more days when she'd incite the class president to sprint after her, laughing with disaster in her wake. She picked fights in turn when people gossiped about her bad behaviour, adopting the persona of a mad scientist who'd shove concoctions that would make their skin turn blue.
Simply put: Tachyon seemed lost to actually be in Tracen.
She had the hallmarks of someone whose very acceptance almost seemed an unexpected outcome. Like there was no drive for her to actually be here, once she saw the way trainers swarmed around her like vultures around carrion. She'd gotten into fights there too, putting off a vast majority who simply viewed her as inflammatory and far, far more trouble than she was worth.
But, oh, Cafe observed. In between the fights and the loud, rambunctious laugh she'd cultivated, she witnessed the way she powered down in the safe space that was their little clubroom.
There was something exciting about having exclusive access to this Tachyon, all within view of her special seat on the couch diagonal to her. And, of course, sometimes, Tachyon would turn her attentions to her and natter excitedly about the latest formula she'd just discovered, speaking volumes about Ayurvedic principles and how it'll make her skin go pin-pon-pin and make her capable of contacting the very powerhouse of the cell, the Umamitochondria.
Then Cafe would quietly smile underneath that cup of hers, and ignore her.
This was the key.
Cafe knew Tachyon hated the silence that followed one of her boisterous attempts to function in the world. It only took a few seconds, then-- her ears would flop, even though she maintained that rigid smile like her face was the only source of tells on her own body. But Tachyon never noticed her habit of digging her nails into the armrest of her chair. Cafe, of course, observed all of that.
Tachyon wasn't so weak she'd falter on the first hurdle, of course. Without fail, she'd launch into a second barrage of words. Now she's talking about abject discourse of the structure of the Uma lung, and her theorem to evoke energy with her newest concoction that would give them twice the amount of capacity to circulate oxygen into the muscles and improve aerobic strength.
More silence. This was when Tachyon started to squirm. In a public setting, in other words, a target-rich environment, she could mask these lapses well enough by switching to another, or just leaving entirely. Tachyon had the power to paper over the dysphoria and uncertainty that needled her at every turn, there.
But within the sanctity of their clubroom?
Cafe had Tachyon where she wanted her. This was the Tachyon only she knew about.
"No," Cafe finally answered.
"How cold!" Tachyon crooned, but being released from her prison cell of neglect and rejection visibly injected her with a burst of dopamine and relief. The exchange finished, she wheeled herself to the safety of her computer desk once more, like some animal who'd just been grabbed and was relieved to just be able to retreat.
What a stimulating little ritual. Where so many others protested her very existence, called her a menace, or whatever nasty word they'd invented for Tachyon for the week, Cafe had her wrapped around her finger.
Perhaps Cafe was the nasty one.
But it felt enthralling nonetheless. This strange, aimless little scion, so at odds at existing with the rest of the world, just like her. Though Cafe sensed a similarity at their cores, a core that simply didn't understand people, Tachyon wielded a kind of clowning to deal with the world, layers upon layers of vivacious life to keep everyone guessing, unlike Cafe, who just walled everything out behind the veneer of cold, aloof distance.
Will she even run in the Twinkle Series, or will she vanish just like that, having never achieved anything? Even if she did, will she destroy herself on her glass legs? The same question could be leveraged to her, with how her health and condition was always in perpetual uncertainty. It wasn't Cafe's place to make a judgment.
Only to observe, behind a cup of rich, dark coffee, behind golden eyes.